He nods, though his mind seems partially elsewhere, processing whatever information Malcolm delivered. Rather than press for details, I take a different approach, reaching into my bag for the small sketchbook I always carry.
"The children's menu here is terrible," I declare, flipping to a blank page and beginning to sketch. "All generic cartoons and connect-the-dots that barely resemble food. Kids deserve better."
My pencil moves quickly across the paper as I redesign the children's menu with playful pasta characters, a maze shaped like a plate of spaghetti, and small illustrations telling the story of how different pasta shapes came to be.
Seamus watches my hands with evident fascination, his attention gradually returning fully to our table, to this moment.
The business tension doesn't disappear entirely, but it recedes as he engages with my creative process.
"May I?" he asks, gesturing to the menu design.
When I slide it toward him, he studies it with the same focused attention he would give to architectural plans or financial projections.
"The structure is excellent," he observes, tracing the layout with one finger.
The assessment is so characteristically Seamus—finding the underlying order within creative expression—that I can't help smiling.
He may approach the world differently than I do, but his perspective doesn't diminish mine; it complements it.
We leave the redesigned menu with our server, who seems delighted by the unexpected gift.
Outside the restaurant, the spring evening has turned cool, stars visible between buildings in the clear night sky. Seamus removes his jacket and places it around my shoulders without comment, the gesture automatic rather than calculated.
As we walk toward the waiting car, I find myself laughing at something he says (a dry observation about the restaurant owner's enthusiastic hand gestures) and the sound seems to catch us both by surprise.
When was the last time I laughed so freely in his presence? When did this arranged partnership begin to feel like genuine companionship?
He looks down at me, something soft and wondering in his expression, and for a moment I think he might kiss me again, here on the sidewalk without cameras or audience expectations.
A figure emerges from between parked cars, camera raised, voice sharp with provocative intent. "Mrs. O'Malley! Any comment on the Heritage project?"
I blink against the lingering spots in my vision, feeling Seamus tense beside me, his hand tightening around mine.
The paparazzo continues, sensing vulnerability and pressing his advantage. "Are you less invested now that your husband is basically guaranteed a payout? Does that make you a sellout?"
His camera keeps clicking.
Seamus steps slightly in front of me, his movement protective rather than controlling.
"Don't talk about my wife that way," he says, voice level but with an undercurrent of steel. "Now, step aside."
The photographer continues snapping pictures, clearly hoping to provoke a more dramatic reaction.
The car arrives with perfect timing, our driver pulling smoothly to the curb.
Seamus guides me inside with a hand at my elbow, his touch gentle despite the tension radiating from him.
***
Alone, I sink onto the edge of my bed and press my palms to my eyes.
This was supposed to be simple.
I was supposed to protect my dream and keep my heart out of it.
Instead, I’m lying here thinking about the way he brushed my hair from my face. The way he looked at me across the table. The way he said,Don’t talk about my wife like that.
My husband.
